


eye of the storm

by blacksatinpointeshoes



Series: jon sims v the nhs [4]
Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Adventures of Jon In Therapy Continue, Attempt at Humor, Autistic Jon Sims, Gen, Healing, Jon Cannot Cook To Save His Life, Let Jon Pine Too Guys, Light Angst, OH AND PINING A BIT how did I forget that, Pre-MAG 135 but also spoilers for MAG 135, living in the archives, please be proud of the disaster archivist, sibling dynamics, we are making progress lads!!!! we REALLY are!!!!, why you ask??? because I say so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 06:59:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18516286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacksatinpointeshoes/pseuds/blacksatinpointeshoes
Summary: The thing is, apparently, if you go to therapy for a few weeks, you actually feelbetter. Jon still has a lot to work out, but at least this claim is holding true.(or, disaster Archivist is a little bit less of a disaster, featuring Melanie.)





	eye of the storm

**Author's Note:**

> hello lads I've found my niche and apparently it's fictional therapy! luckily for the people who like this series, it's not ending anytime soon.
> 
> that said, enjoy :)

“No -  _ no!  _ Goddamnit, Jon, you absolute  _ monster,  _ get off!” Melanie cries, swatting Jon’s hand away from the frying pan, where he has just attempted to pick up a still-cooking breakfast sausage and take a bite. She glares pointedly for a moment, then cracks under his look of impassive confusion, muttering, “God, the things that go on in your head. You know, I’m  _ making  _ breakfast. You don’t have to steal it.”

Jon shifts, and Melanie realises that he has one of his nicer sweater vests on. “Wait,” she says, pointing the spatula at him accusingly. “Where are you going?” 

Straightening his collar, Jon lets out a short sigh and says, “This was the only time Dr Bright could fit me in this week. I— honestly, I wouldn’t have taken the appointment if I’d known you were cooking. I feel like we’ve been eating takeaway since last month.”

“That’s because you don’t go grocery shopping and you don’t cook,” Melanie points out, folding her arms. “But don’t take that as an invitation to start, Jon, we all know you’re awful at it. Now, get out.”

Jon blinks. “What?”

“Well, you’re going to be late, aren’t you?” Melanie asks leadingly, her eyes flicking to a door etching itself into the Archive wall. Jon belatedly notices that the rickety table in the basement’s tiny kitchen is set with two places; putting together the obvious clues, he heads for the door.

“Good luck with Helen,” Jon says drily as he exits, feeling her presence at the base of his skull. Melanie balls up a paper towel and hits him on the shoulder with it, and Jon smiles.

It’s nice, this. 

* * *

Jon’s rolled up his shirtsleeves to his elbows as he sits in Dr Bright’s waiting room, scribbling down notes about the third Daedalus station statement he’s encountered thus far. This one is particularly… disturbing, but that  _ should  _ be expected concerning any rituals of the Dark. The Archivist will record it tomorrow, if Jon manages any sleep tonight.

The door to Dr Bright’s office swings open and a young woman with a warm smile and paint-stained overalls practically tumbles out, chattering an adoring goodbye. When she makes eye contact with Jon, though, she stops, a look of recognition creeping across her face, and the woman turns to Dr Bright without hiding her distress. 

Jon’s heart sinks.

_ I am not a monster,  _ Dr Bright’s voice says in his head, but right now he feels like one. 

Deciding to be brave, he stands up, extends a hand, and doesn’t - can’t - look the young woman in the eyes. “I’m - Jon,” he says, and it’s awkward, but he says it, which is progress. 

“Chloe,” says the artist, with less warmth than before, but she manages a smile again. She barely even stares at the scars on his arms, almost doesn’t recoil from the smooth burned tissue of his left hand. “Nice to meet you! Sorry, I - you know. Not to dunk on Class E, or anything, but I kinda had a bad experience with someone with your skillset - or something similar to yours. Influencing minds, right? I read them, so we’re opposites. It threw me a bit.”

Jon is a bit thrown by this volley of exposition but takes it like a champ, stuttering, “I-I-I don’t - I— you can read minds?” 

Nice going, Jon. 

Dr Bright puts a hand on Chloe’s elbow and says, “As much as I’m sure this is a fascinating conversation for everyone, I have a busy day lined up and don’t want to cut into Jon’s time. I could discuss putting you in touch if you like.”

Chloe beams. “That’d be great, Dr Bright!” she says, turning to Jon. “So long as you’re cool. I know that I can be really enthusiastic when I first meet people.”

“Um,” says Jon, completely lost, before Chloe continues.

“Speaking of—” Her smile is back in full force. “Frank and I are volunteering down at the community center, so, bye! Let me know if you want to talk!” She waves, then disappears out the door in a whirlwind of colour and creativity. 

“Nice to meet you?” Jon calls after her, his brow furrowed. 

“Let’s get settled in my office,” Dr Bright says, fighting a smile, and leads him inside. “Your hair looks nice, Jon. I’m glad to see you taking care of yourself.”

Jon pats the crown of french braids and clears his throat. “Yes, well. Melanie said I looked like a rat, which somehow seemed to be her way of offering to fix it. I—I would have asked Martin, but…” His mouth twists downwards as he takes his usual seat. “I haven’t seen him in far too long, and though I’d like to rationalise it into nothing, I’m… worried.”

Dr Bright picks up a cup of tea from her desk and holds it in both hands, sitting directly across from Jon. “Had your relationship with Martin changed at all before he started avoiding you?” she asks, her tone gentle. “I know it sounds like very stereotypical advice, but a little bit of communication goes a long way.”

“I  _ tried,”  _ Jon counters, his nose wrinkling in self-flagellating frustration. “He told me to stop finding him. I don’t think anyone’s seen him much since then. And— well, before that, I was… I was dead, essentially.”

Nodding, Dr Bright takes a sip of her tea as she listens. “So you believe it’s something greater than yourself, then. Something supernatural.”

Jon’s jaw tenses. “Yes.” 

“Can you do anything about it?” she asks calmly. “It’s good that you worry, Jon; it means you care. But if you can’t do anything on your own, I’m sure that you can find people who can. You said that you’ve been mending your relationships lately, or at least trying.”

“With Melanie and Daisy,  _ maybe,  _ but—” Jon starts, then sighs sharply. “I can tell that some of the others are…  _ eager,  _ shall we say, for an Institute without me in it. And if Peter Lukas really is working with the Lonely, then—” Another intake of breath; a faint prickle of static in the back of Jon’s head. “Well. That’d certainly be one way of keeping him isolated.” 

“Melanie and Daisy are still two people in your corner,” Dr Bright points out, steadfast as always. “And you said you’d spoken to Basira during last week’s session? You told me it went well.”

“I— well— I told her that self destructive decisions wouldn’t get her anywhere, and I… used myself as proof,” Jon says, reaching up as if to run a hand through his hair and then deciding against it to preserve the braid crown. “When I’m alone, I don’t see things clearly.”

“Which is why you need to take your own advice,” Dr Bright says, and her tiny, proud smile feels like the sun breaking through the clouds. “Lean on your team, Jon. You don’t have to be afraid of them becoming your friends.”

Jon pushes up his glasses. “I just— Martin  _ can’t  _ be another person who—  _ he _ can’t be another person I don’t save,” he manages, and he’s thinking about Tim, he’s thinking about Sasha, he’s thinking about Gertrude Robinson’s three assistants who all died horrible deaths, he’s thinking about everyone in the box whose pleas he heard and refused to acknowledge, he’s thinking about—

“Jon,” says Dr Bright gently, and when he opens his eyes he realises he’s been rocking, the way he did when he was a kid. “Jon, breathe.”

Inhale. Exhale. 

Do that again. Jon looks up but he’s not quite at eye contact yet. He’s not quite at speaking yet either, but he’ll get there.

“Can I sit next to you?” Dr Bright asks, and Jon nods. She sets down her tea and perches on the couch beside him. “May I touch you?” she asks again, and again Jon nods. She puts a grounding hand on his knee and smiles, warm and comforting and kind.

“You don’t have to look at me, but I need you to listen,” Dr Bright says, and Jon nods once more. She clears her throat and tucks a strand of hair behind one ear, which Jon has typically known her to do before being completely correct about an issue that’s been bothering him. “You’re not responsible for the weight of the world, Jon. Some deaths aren’t your fault. Some people aren’t your jurisdiction. Things may be cruel and unfair but life is comprised of choices, and sometimes you have to make the choice to prioritise your mental and physical health over a goal that could hurt both yourself and others.”

Dr Bright squeezes Jon’s knee and continues, “Jon, even if you had a way to be sure of recreating your escape from the coffin, you still might not be able to rescue everyone. And that’s not a failing on your part. It’s not your responsibility to attempt that, because you’ll drive yourself to ruin feeling guilty. Sometimes - and this is  _ important,  _ Jon - no matter how hard it is, you have to let things go.”

(Dr Bright doesn’t know just how much Jon needs this right now. She cares about him, certainly, and she always does her best for her patients, but she can’t know how deeply these words will impact him. She doesn’t know just how effectively they’ll stop his spiral. There’s no way to know that the Archivist will repeat her advice into a tape recorder, say it like a prayer, and immortalise it there. He will, but she doesn’t know that.)

Now, Jon shuts his eyes and leans back, exhaling a shuddery breath. “Yes,” he says softly. “I suppose I do.”

With a faint buzz of static at the back of his neck, he finishes his thought with a puff of air:  _ but not Martin.  _

**Author's Note:**

> before you ask, yes the breakfast sausage thing is from a real incident. 
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are wholeheartedly adored!! I'm also over on tumblr @thoughtsbubble and twitter @ucbamba for shenanigans.


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